


Colorblind

by oneletterdiff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneletterdiff/pseuds/oneletterdiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tywin manages to wrestle Jaime out of the Kingsguard after he loses his hand. Tyrion is convicted of Joffrey’s murder, but Sansa isn’t; their marriage is annulled due to his status as a traitor and the fact that their marriage was never consummated. In order to keep Sansa’s bloodlines within the family, Tywin sets her up to marry Jaime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime I

Unclasping a cloak with one hand was a lot harder than one might think. _They told me that because I couldn’t fight, I had to get married,_ Jaime thinks bitterly, struggling to undo his bride’s maidencloak. _But I can’t even get married right._ Finally, he gets the cloak unclasped, allowing it to fall to the ground in an undignified heap. Jaime almost feels guilty. Almost. If it were a marriage he wanted, perhaps he would have tried harder to adhere to the age old traditions of carefully folding up the maidencloak and handing it off to the bride’s father. But then again, Sansa Stark has no father left in this world—a fact Jaime is painfully reminded of every time he looks at her icily stoic eyes—and it is up to his own father to collect the discarded cloak from the ground.

Cousin Martyn steps forwards with a gold and crimson cloak, and after watching Jaime struggle with it for a few seconds, hesitantly helps him to wrap the cloak around Sansa’s shoulders and clasp it. Jaime hates how obvious his disability must be made, and for the whole court to watch. _What kind of man can’t even drape his bride in her wedding cloak?_ he wonders, disgusted with himself. Once the cloak is fastened, Martyn is quick to step back from the alter, and Jaime turns his gaze to the High Septon, who resumes his droning speech.

It is only when the Septon says, “…and before the eyes of the Seven, I now proclaim you husband and wife,” that Jaime realizes that perhaps it would have been wise of him to listen what his wedding vows entailed.Thoroughly displeased with everything about the situation, Jaime turns to his new wife, who looks about as reluctant about the match as he feels, and leans down to press the required kiss to her lips. He can hear the court clapping dutifully when he straightens up again. _A picture perfect wedding, I am sure_ , he thinks gloomily and forces a smile as he casts his eyes around the sept.

He sees Father, standing firm and seeming mighty pleased with himself behind the usual taciturn frown, and Cersei. Beautiful, dear Cersei in all her finery, looking powerful and rich and angry beyond all measure. Earlier that morning, she had stormed into his room and stonily demanded that he not go through with it.

“I didn’t ask for this!” he had shouted back. “I don’t want to marry to her. I don’t want anyone but you, Cersei.” _My sister. My lover. My other half_ , he silently swore, and then they had fucked, furious and passionate on the morning of his wedding.

The memory stirs something warm in his gut as he meets Cersei’s gaze across the sept. He forces himself to look away, reminding himself that such thoughts have neither the time nor place in this moment. Mentally running through the rest of the day’s festivities— _wedding, feast, bedding, then Father will send me packing to Casterly Rock_ —Jaime realizes that he doesn’t know when he’ll next have the time or place to see his sister again.

He manages to sit next to her at the feast, and it isn’t until the food has been served that Jaime realizes his mistake. He has seated himself between lover and wife. _As if this day could get any more miserable,_ he thinks and angrily stabs a slice of meat on his plate.

“Happy wedding, brother dearest,” says Cersei, voice dripping with scorn.

“You are too kind,” Jaime responds mockingly. “My sister and queen.”

Cersei purses her lips, and turns her attention to the girl on Jaime’s other side. “And you,” she says coldly. “Many happy returns.”

Jaime flinches at the thinly veiled hatred in his sister’s voice. _You, who have taken so much from this girl, have finally lost something to her,_ he realizes and glances quickly at his young wife.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa murmurs quietly, blue eyes downcast. She is the very image of a dutiful bride, and a part of Jaime wonders if she really is as stupid and vacant as Cersei has led him to believe.

Then the second course arrives, and Jaime is distracted by the new food. It isn’t as lavish or plentiful as previous Lannister wedding feasts have been, a result, Jaime knows, that caused by the current chaos sweeping through the kingdom. _It’s rather fitting,_ he supposes. _A meager feast for a reluctant wedding._ He glances at Sansa, who is sitting with a stiff spine as she slowly eats, and finds himself wondering how the food compares to the feast for her wedding to Tyrion. _It’s seems a bit excessive,_ he thinks, struck by a moment of grim good humor, _to marry two Lannister brothers within the course of a year_. 

His amusement fades quickly as his thoughts turn to his brother. _It can’t be easy to be a declared traitor on the run_. Jaime then thinks of how quickly his father worked to have Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion set aside, such that he could marry her. _Greedy Father,_ he thinks cynically. _Clever Father. This match does kill two birds with one stone, doesn’t it? It lets you keep Sansa Stark’s inheritance within the family and it assures you that someone other than Tyrion will inherit Casterly Rock._ Then Jaime sees Sansa’s sad eyes and wonders if she will like Casterly Rock better than King’s Landing. Somehow, he thinks that she might. Not that he cares.

But Sansa isn’t at Casterly Rock yet. She’s still in King’s Landing, still at her wedding feast, still has to sit silently when Father calls for the bedding. Jaime has never been married before, but he’s seen enough weddings to know what happens next. _Are you so eager for grandchildren who aren’t Cersei’s?_ he wonders briefly when the men rush his young bride, drunk and enthusiastic about removing her dress. He can feel some of the ladies’ hands on his body, undoing his own clothing, as he is hurried down the hall to the bed chamber set aside for his wedding night.

Dressed in only his small clothes and feeling surprisingly embarrassed, Jaime is quick to close the door on the giggling ladies and sit down on the bed. He wearily rubs his temples and wonders what he’s doing here. _I was never meant to be a husband._

Then the door opens. Jaime looks up to see Uncle Kevan standing tall and firm in the doorway. He holds a very nearly naked Sansa in his arms. “Do your mother proud,” he tells Jaime, then deposits Sansa in the room and closes the door.

Jaime wonders at his uncle’s choice of words. He can barely remember his mother, only little memories of her softness and her sweetness. _Does he mean for me to be kind and gentle to Sansa Stark?_ Jaime doesn’t think he’ll have any difficulty with that; he has no desire to force himself on the young girl.

And how young she is. Sansa Stark stands before him, trembling in her small clothes, and her blue eyes, once so icy and emotionless, are wide with fear.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” says Jaime gruffly. He pats the spot on the bed next to him. “And you can come and sit down. I’m not… I won’t touch you.”

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa says coolly. “But I think I’d prefer to stand.” Gone is the façade of polite agreement to everything. Now that they are alone, she makes very little effort to hide her dislike.

Jaime shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says. “I know that I’m not as kind nor as trustworthy as my brother, but I would never force myself on you.”

“But you, also unlike your brother, can’t afford to let the court know that you’ve failed to consummate your marriage,” deduces Sansa, and Jaime was right; she does seem a might bit smarter than Cersei and said.

“I put a knife in here earlier,” Jaime tells her easily. “Fetch it from the desk for me, and it’ll be easy to let the others believe what they want to believe.”

Sansa, surprisingly, does as he bids her, and then watches with a strange fascination as he carefully slices his palm open and smears his blood over the bedsheets. 

“That should do the trick,” Jaime says. “Now come and sleep. I give you my word that I won’t touch you.”

“What is the word of a kingslayer worth?” asks Sansa. Her voice is cold, but she does indeed walk farther into the room, to sit down on the bed beside Jaime.

“You’re not a king,” Jaime says and snuggles into the now blood-stained bedsheets. “So you have nothing to fear from me.” He waits until he can feel Sansa slide into the bed beside him, then adds, “Just ask the Maid of Tarth.”


	2. Sansa I

In the end, she does ask Brienne.

Leaving her maid Brella to finish packing for Casterly Rock, Sansa moves quietly through the Red Keep until she reaches the tower she knows the Maid of Tarth had been temporarily lodged in. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Sansa begins with an apology. “But I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Brienne bows awkwardly and opens her door wider. “My lady,” she says. “Of course.”

Sansa carefully takes a seat in one of the two chairs, smoothing her crimson skirts around her. “First of all, Brienne—may I call you Brienne?—I wanted to thank you for swearing allegiance to my lady mother,” she says softly.

“What the Freys did to her, and your brother, was unspeakable,” says Brienne fiercely.

Sansa smiles gratefully at the sentiment. “Yes,” she whispers. “It was.” Then she lifts her blue eyes to look at Brienne’s homely, but honest-looking face. “And I wanted to ask you a question about the Kingslayer.”

Brienne blinks at her. “About Jaime?” she asks in surprise, then bites her lip, aware of what it says that she uses his first name.

“Yes,” says Sansa. “During last night’s bedding, I asked my lord-husband what good his word was worth, and he said I should ask you.”

“He didn’t touch you, did he?” Brienne asks immediately. “I swore a vow to Lady Catelyn that I’d protect you, and she made Ser Jaime swear the same, and if he—”

“No,” interrupts Sansa. “He didn’t. But still, I would like to know how trustworthy my new husband is.”

Brienne bows her head. “He may be a kingslayer but he is no oathbreaker,” she tells Sansa. “If he gives his word, it is as good as done.”

Sansa nods decisively. “I see. Thank you,” she says, and gets to her feet.

“My lady,” says Brienne respectfully.

Pausing in the doorway, Sansa looks back at the Maid of Tarth and says, “Brienne, you would be most welcome to come to Casterly Rock with me and my lord-husband if you so wished.”

Brienne smiles, then bows low. “You are most gracious, my lady,” she says. “But I swore to your lady mother that I would protect both you and your sister, and I must away tomorrow to continue my search for the Lady Arya.”

“If you find her,” says Sansa, blue eyes wide with hope, “would you be so kind as to bring her to me?”

Brienne inclines her head in a small nod. “Of course,” she says softly.

Sansa walks back to her own chambers with a lighter heart. _I’ll still be a prisoner at Casterly Rock, but at least I can sleep easy at night, knowing that the Kingslayer won’t touch me,_ she thinks and slips into her room, where she finds her packed trunks and a note.

_“Sansa,”_ the note reads. _“We leave just after midday. Father expects us for a meal in his quarters. Jaime.”_

The poor handwriting tells Sansa that this note was penned by her husband’s remaining hand, and she finds this knowledge strangely touching.

She is less happy about the prospect of dinning with Lord Twyin. He scares her. He is all of Joffrey’s cruelty and none of his recklessness. _Perhaps even more dangerous than Cersei_ , Sansa muses to herself as she makes her way to Ser Jaime’s chambers. She knocks lightly on the heavy oaken door, then enters.

Her husband barely spares her a glance as she closes the door behind her. Sansa isn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended by the subtle slight. Pushing the matter from her mind, she drops a quick curtsey. _I must be the perfect image of a dutiful wife and lady, no matter how he may act_. “My lord,” she murmurs with downcast eyes.

Jaime’s mouth twitches. “Is that what you’re wearing to luncheon with Father?” he asks.

“My lord?” Sansa isn’t sure what he means. She had Brella dress her in one of her finest gowns: a pale blue silk embroidered with violet blooms. It wouldn’t do for her to depart from King’s Landing in anything less than her best.

“Did you marry me, or your uncle?” asks Jaime, voice scathing. “Blue is a Tully color, my little lady. You are a Lannister, remember?”

Sansa cringes and looks away. “Of course, my lord,” she says softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“The color _does_ suit you,” Jaime admits and gets to his feet. He studies Sansa with probing eyes. “And I suppose there isn’t time enough for you to change before we meet Father. But you’d best be dressed in something crimson or gold when we arrive at Casterly Rock.”

“Yes, my lord. I will be sure to,” promises Sansa. _Stupid,_ she silently berates herself. _You have to be smarter than this, Sansa. You’ve got to be one step ahead of everyone else to survive the Westerlands._

Lunch in Lord Twyin’s solar is a quiet affair. Sansa and Jaime are the only guests, so the meal is just three courses with one servant attending to them. Sansa stays silent and stares at her hands folded in her lap while Jaime and Lord Twyin converse in terse tones.

“You’ll find that being Lord of a great house is a rather different experience from being a knight of the Kingsguard,” Lord Twyin tells Jaime. “Vylarr and Ser Benedict will serve as your teachers in reeducating you to inherit Casterly Rock after my passing.”

Jaime gracelessly stabs a slab of veal, reminding Sansa once again of Jaime’s other reeducation - that of relearning how to do everything with his other hand. “I was _meant_ to be a knight of the Kingsguard,” says Jaime.

“Not anymore,” says Lord Twyin archly. “A knight without his sword hand isn’t much use to any king, I shouldn’t imagine.”

“But luckily it won’t impede upon my abilities to be a lord,” Jaime says mockingly.

His bitter tone sends chills down Sansa’s spine. _I’ll have to be careful when he’s in these moods_ , she notes and gingerly takes another tiny bite of food.

“It might a little,” Lord Twyin concedes. “So it is fortunate that you are a married man, with an able wife to pick up your lack. Do you think you’re up to task?”

It takes Sansa a second to realize that Lord Twyin’s question is directed at her. “I will do my best, my lord,” she says in a whisper.

“Did your mother teach you anything of running a household, or did you leave home too young for that?” asks Lord Twyin.

Sansa shakes her head. “No, my lord,” she says. “But I have learned much from Queen Cersei in my time here.”

“Running Casterly Rock will be different from managing the Red Keep, and by extension, the whole of the Seven Kingdoms,” says Lord Twyin in a chiding voice. 

“I’m sure my lord-husband will correct me when I falter,” Sansa says, daring to sneak a glance at Jaime.

The Kingslayer looks bored, but nods anyways. “A Lannister always pays his debts, Father,” he drones. “And my lady-wife and I will be sure to treat Casterly Rock with the respect it deserves.”

_He speaks as though it were a person and not a castle at all_ , muses Sansa, but the sentiment seems to please Lord Twyin, who nods brusquely and returns to eating.

After the meal, Jaime holds Sansa’s elbow with his good hand, guiding her from the room. The moment the door closes behind them, she is tugs her arm away. “I am perfectly capable of finding my own way back to my rooms,” she says coldly.

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” returns Jaime. His green eyes are narrowed and almost angry. “That was for Father’s benefit, not _yours_.” He spits the last word like a curse, then whirls and strides away down the corridor.


End file.
